A Temptation in Writing
by Killjoy Queen
Summary: When Harry's past life finally catches up with her, she has no choice but to take desperate measures. Harry/Sherlock, T for now, may change to M.
1. Prologue: Letters

**A/N: Apologies for not working on my other projects - this one is a joint one with a friend (Ghostyy). I hope you all enjoy :)**

* * *

_Dear Clara,_

_Your more recent idea for an 'adventure' has crossed the line. The worst part was that you knew that, yet you still went out of your way to push the boundaries. I've had enough._

_I can't do this anymore. It's not right, and I've come to realize that it never really was. It took a long time – but our last holiday proved that to me unanimously. How incredible, wonderful and exhilarating things are with you is not the point and never has been._

_I can't live life so selfishly anymore. I also can't afford to regret this decision and will not give you time enough to make me change my mind, as you always seem to manage to. We've had the most amazing time together, and it pains me to know that it's all in the past now. I just hope that you can forgive me for running as I am, but you must understand my choice._

_I urge you to respect my wishes and give me the freedom I feel you owe me. Know that I'll miss what we had – just not how we took it._

_Yours,_

_Harriet Watson._

* * *

_Harriet,_

_It's been two months, five days and seven hours, since the beginning of this letter. I like to keep count of things, something I'm certain you're most aware of – although concerning such a matter as you and me, I'm also sure you're wondering why I bothered, considering the reasons behind your disappearance, as of late._

_It has come to my attention that you're quite... interested in something of mine. Something that was promised you. Something you're still too afraid to approach me for. Something which I know you seek because of the very reasons I'm writing this letter to you now._

_I know where you are, Harriet._

_I know everywhere you've been, since you left me._

_But I'm not altogether without a heart. I believe in giving everybody a second chance. I believe in paying my debts – as is fair. But I also like to see people... work a little bit for their earnings, which I'm sure you understand. Don't worry, though – I'm sure you will find everything rather enlightening when the time comes. The pieces will fall into place, Harriet, as they so often have done between you and I._

_I promise you I will free you if you indulge me... just for a short while. I'm even going to make it easy for you._

_After all, you also have something of mine._

_I have always admired you for your cleverness, Harriet, and your surprising deviance. They are traits that I hold, unlike the general populace, in high esteem. I must congratulate you on such a move, Harriet... though there's many more you've made that have caused me a great deal more pleasure._

_I want it back, Harriet, and I will have it back. I've grown tired of waiting. It's time for us to play, Harriet. Dance a little dance together, just like the old days, eh?_

_People like us are rare. Tu as une vie normale, j'ai as une vie normale – false images of our lives which we portray so wonderfully well, considering how extraordinary we both are. Remember this though, Harriet. We are simply extraordinary alone. It breaks one's heart to admit it, but we're more than that together._

_Together, we are special._

_Love, Clara_

_P.S. Looking forward to seeing you. I'll be thinking of you._


	2. 1: An Unexpected Guest

It was a miserable day in London. Keeping up with the customs of British weather, the sky threatened rain; the clouds grey and murky. A sharp wind whistled through the air and through Baker Street; entering 221B as a nasty little draught. Searching through the house for prey, it caught Mrs Hudson around the ankles; as she carried the teapot from the upstairs rooms down into the kitchen.

The resounding shrill shriek, smash of china and response of mild (but somewhat sweet) swearing caused John Watson to immediately look up from his blog and rush like a bat out of hell in response to the commotion. The other figure in the room did not move from his armchair, or his work (if it was possible to call it that); but did call out to him, in his own way of showing concern.

"Tell Mrs Hudson to wear the legwarmers I bought her, John. There's becoming an absurd shortage in crockery, as of late."

It had been a very dry week, he thought, very dry indeed – which was frustrating to him. Murders happened every day in London, surely. Not one of them had been remotely curious, at all?

He supposed he had idiots like Anderson and Donovan to thank for that. Idiots who never bothered to look deep enough and who never bothered to be inquisitive on a level much deeper than the very obvious. The thought of it irked him, surprisingly more deeply usual. Even the nicotine patches seemed less effective and soothing than normal. Part of him was very tempted to break into his 'secret stash'... but then John would mostly re-enter at the most inconvenient of times and begin another one of his tedious lectures.

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and attempted to recall the reasons why he'd taken on the case in the first place. It involved a missing so-called rare leopard-spotted gecko from a local elderly woman's apartment. Mrs Yolanda Battersby: eighty-nine years of age, originally from Carlisle, divorced twice, no children, onset of dementia, love of inexpensive perfume and stale shortbread (bought by a cousin in Edinburgh every spring – it was now mid-autumn)... and so on and so forth the dull list continued on in his head. He didn't even have to look at the photographs again; considering he'd solved it several hours earlier.

The phone call had been interesting.

"Hello, Mrs Battersby – it's Sherlock Holmes."

"Samson? I thought you were in Australia! How are you?"

"No... Mrs Battersby. It's _Sherlock_. I have the results of the investigation – your missing pet."

"... Pet? Oh, yes of course! Fudgie! Have you found out who stole him? I only had him a week and a half – terrible, terrible crime it was..."

She seemed to drift off mid-sentence. Sherlock groaned audibly.

_Mad old bat. _

Rather than letting her drift on into a state of oblivion, however, Sherlock cut across her abruptly. "The thing is, Mrs Battersby, your gecko isn't a gecko at all. From the innumerate evidence you've provided me in photographs, coupled with the fact that your pet was last seen, and I quote, 'pottering about in the garden', a simple search on Google was enough."

"Oh?"

"He's a chameleon, Mrs Battersby."

Pause. Sherlock could almost hear the gears in her head turning. It was unpleasant, pathetic sound; too much rust and too little oil. He could feel his will melting from him and settling around his feet somewhere in a sad little puddle.

_Maybe the shock of it killed her. Oh please, please... or better yet, there's a break in, yes... _

It seemed a little unkind for him to think such ugly things about the fate of a harmless (albeit somewhat senile) old lady, but the idea of a new case, no matter how miniscule the chance, was so tempting to him that he was inventing his own up; until he realised that Mrs Battersby was partway through the middle of a sentence.

"... that can't be, you see, my nephew Michael, he was _certain_ it was a gecko – he bought it specially from a collector –"

"Then your nephew, Mrs Battersby, is an idiot. I suggest another search around the garden – good day to you and try not to lose any more of your menagerie."

He had slammed the phone down, plonked himself down in his armchair and had remained there since, twitching – only getting up to glace half-heartedly at John's literary efforts on his blog and to fetch several patches. In a somewhat cruel way; he was thankful that Mrs Hudson had fallen over. It had served to break (haha) the dullness of the day.

Sure enough, a ruffled Mrs Hudson emerged; escorted under one arm by an equally ruffled looking John. The remnants of the cracked teapot were in her left hand – her kindly, wrinkled face so forlorn it was almost a caricature. Sherlock exchanged glances with John – who shook his head in reply – and smiled despite himself. John set her down on one of the armchairs and reached down to take the teapot from her, but her steely fingers were grasped around it as if it were made of solid gold.

"I'm sorry boys," she said, breathless, "Someone stepped on my grave. It was a wedding present – an antique, in all –"

"Car boot sale, five pounds or whatever equivalent at the time, no brand name. The person who gave you it was stingy at best, probably not a fan of your-"

"Sherlock!"

John glared at him. Mrs Hudson gave him a tired look as the bell from downstairs rang. Sherlock's eyebrows raised.

"Give over Sherlock, get the door and make yourself useful. You're honestly like a Labrador – cooped in with no sticks in sight."

The sulky retort rose in Sherlock's throat –

_Am not!_

– but he let it go; swallowing a small bubble of pride instead of initiating an argument with John. They were becoming all too frequent recently and somewhat tiresome. Besides, an unexpected guest ringing the door? The day was becoming more engaging by the minute.

Sherlock's pessimism, as he would later learn, was entirely misplaced. And as he answered the door to the slight figure that stood outside it, he realised that all too well.

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_Scotch. Half a bottle to be precise. That's how much it took to give me the courage to write to Clara. _

_We've been apart for several months now, which doesn't seem like a long time to the average person, but considering we've rarely been apart for the best part of twelve years...? Well you can imagine how much a hole she's left, and how much of an impact she made on my life. But that's not something I want to think about right now. Besides, you already know everything. That's why you're here. You're the only one who I'll let listen.__You're not the only thing that's kept me going, however. Oh no. Alcohol, one of my closest friends, has also been with me through the last year or so. It was there to catch me when I started doubt her, and kept my mind hazy when I had to do those terrible things. It's helped to numb the throbbing hollow where my heart was, that I've had to dig from my chest in order to stop me wanting to go back. _

_It was so much easier when I just did what was asked of me after all. We just used to live life recklessly. We lived by the idea of taking what you've earned, and not waiting for someone to hand us our lives on a platter. In fact, we took it to new extremes. _

_Clara was always about extremes and even though I've gone, that hasn't stopped her urges. If anything, they've made her worse. I feel like I was the cap of a bottle which had been furiously shaken, and now I've gone, there's nothing stopping her. Not anymore. _

_Even now I know she's watching me. She won't let me breathe without her knowing about it._

_I need help._

* * *

Harry Watson, blonde and always cutesy no matter how hard she tried, stood in the doorway rather confusedly. The man who stood before her was not her brother. He was much taller, fairer in skin tone, and his hair; darker and thicker with wildly dishevelled curls. Her mind, to her great irritation, immediately blanked; words refusing to come out. Although this person was not her brother, she knew who he was. Rather rudely, he was scanning her almost hungrily; observing her and taking her in. She had expected an old man; a rather irritable one with bandy legs and a pipe. This man was young and oddly statuesque, considering John's less-than-flattering portrayal.

Another stare over her – and the words that had been fighting to escape came out in an irate burst.

"Do you mind!" Harry exclaimed, stepping back. She covered herself protectively whilst glowering at the man; gloved hands brushing her sides. He seemed far too excited to be receiving her company, something she wasn't entirely comfortable with.

She composed herself and put on the most genuine smile she could muster. He raised an eyebrow and she felt slightly embarrassed, but decided to ignore it and held out a hand.

"I'm sorry. It's been a long journey. John has told me a lot about you, Mr Holmes... but probably not as much as you have already figured out about me. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"...Sherlock. Harriet, I presume?" He took her hand and shook it firmly, but in a wholly perfunctory sort of way, which she gathered from his bored look. "Trains are a bother, aren't they? Always running late – so unreliable."

This was so entirely out of place that Harriet found herself unsure of what to make of it. The man in front of her sighed, taking her confusion most likely for stupidity. He continued on regardless and said the rest so quickly that Harry didn't even have time to realise what had happened, let alone get offended.

"...Your jumper has ridden up to your waist, showing you've been seated for some time; longer than a taxi ride as you hadn't noticed it until I pointed it out, indicating therefore it had been in that position for a long while, hence the train. It was late as well, was it not? Are the trains ever dependable? That and you're flustered, clearly. The bags under your eyes tell me you didn't get much sleep either, which makes me think the train was busy, meaning most likely you started your journey during rush hour - shall I continue?"

Harry blinked twice, bracing herself – and she was right to. She had barely nodded her head before Sherlock's rather callous spouting continued.

"Your boots are caked in mud, and your leather jacket still has droplets of water on it from the rain. Just by looking outside I can see that you must have come from the west; the clouds are heavy enough there. The mud? That tells me you came from an area far more rural, meaning you didn't travel from within the city. I'm going to hazard a guess and say you came from the West Country, although it's not really a guess. The accent has rubbed off on you significantly, moi dearr."

Harry stood in silence, waiting for a few moments to see if Sherlock had finished speaking. John had been right about him. Eager to show off, but today being a day (for whatever reason) where he particularly couldn't resist doing so. She was never really one for braggers of any kind, but this one had unbelievably managed to get a real smile out of her and she was almost flattered by his intrigue.

"May I come in?" Her first words for what felt like forever. "I'd like to see my brother, please."

Sherlock chuckled under his breath, his strained smile curious to her. It was an expression which she felt wasn't shared very often, or at least not with essential strangers.

"Please, come in." He stretched out his arm, offering her a hand. Harry pretended to miss the gesture and grasped her bag, hoisting it up on her hip. She wasn't ready to be entirely friendly.

Not yet.

"Excuse me..."

A pause again, as she waited for him to move out of her way. Silence was all she got in response and yet another raised eyebrow. She already felt herself growing exasperated with him.

"You haven't experimented on my brother _again_, have you?" Harry joked weakly.

Once more, instead of gracing her with a response, the man simply continued to smile. He finally stepped out of her way, still observing her every movement. Harry was convinced that his gaze seemed to linger briefly on the pocket of her leather jacket. Could this man see the cigarette box she had in there? Or maybe her flask?

She gulped and hoped John wouldn't be so observant. There were several aspects of her life that she wasn't up to sharing. Not at the moment. John was a worrier, _always_ – and he had a habit of not stopping until either she cracked and snapped at him, or she (pretended to) quit.

Harry stepped inside, hyperaware of Sherlock looming behind her. She was used to people watching her – in fact, they did so every day – but never with such intent as Sherlock was displaying. It was unsettling, yet mildly comforting in a strange kind of way.

"Upstairs," he muttered from behind her, now focussing instead on the messenger bag resting over her shoulder.

Harry pulled her bag closer out of Sherlock's view, almost feeling his stare trying to burn through her in order to reach the bag's contents. Oh, he was definitely on the ball. She decided she liked it. Quite a lot, in fact. He was even better than John had made him out to be.

"Thank you."

Harry began to make her way up the stairs.

"John? It's your darling sister!" She called out, sarcastically in the traditional brother-sister pisstake. "Rushing to get the door and help me with my things, I see?"

John changed from utterly dishevelled-looking to an absolute picture almost immediately. Harry warmed to the core because of it. He got up from Mrs Hudson's side, took her bag from her and enveloped her in a bear hug so excessive that she felt herself fighting to breathe.

"J-John, John it's okay, calm -"

He laughed and loosened his grip a bit. She felt her chest free up a little.

"I've... just not seen you in ages," he replied, muffled into her shoulder. "I've not seen you since Clara. Why didn't you tell me you were coming, you daft bunny?"

He heard Sherlock snort rather rudely as he made his way into the room from the hallway. They both ignored it as John let her go. Harry shook herself out a bit; arms throbbing slightly from her returning circulation.

"... Surprise?" She said enthusiastically, shrugging. She was a terrible liar. The only person who ever believed her was -

"It's a great surprise," said John, beaming. He stepped aside a little to allow Mrs Hudson a view, her wrinkled face lighting up. She got up and took Harry's hand, shaking it with such goodwill that it was almost violent.

"My absolute _pleasure_ to meet you, dear! John talks about you all the time – you're a lawyer, aren't you? Or was that a thespian?"

"Lesbian," John cut in, with an uncomfortable cough. "A lesbian, Mrs Hudson."

Unhelpful as always with any awkward pauses, Sherlock laughed; a genuine belly laugh that rang mockingly in the living room. John smiled and Harry smiled back, trying to avoid Mrs Hudson's somewhat awestruck expression.

"Oh, that's _fine, _dear," she finally said. "There's some married ones next door, you know - they have a very healthy relationship, I'd say – never any fighting, any arguments – they even look after their _teeth _well. I can hear those electric toothbrushes they own going all night –"

"– Tea, Harry?" John said, teeth gritted behind his lips as Sherlock spluttered helplessly.

"Please, John," she grinned.

* * *

It was a few hours later, and a bottle of wine had snuck its way onto the table. Mrs. Hudson had retired to her flat downstairs whilst the rest of them had resorted to conversing around the (now cleared) kitchen table. John had even allowed Harry a glass ("_One_ glass. That's all you're getting, so enjoy it."), which she had graciously accepted.

John suddenly got up, as if he had remembered something.

"I have a date with Jennifer tonight, so I'm going to have to head off," he mused, glancing over to Harry suggestively and thus hinting so obviously that he might as well have simply nudged his head at her towards the door.

"The one with the dogs?" Sherlock quizzed, feigning interest without much effort.

John nodded proudly.

"Have you got a photo?" Harry chimed in, whilst reaching round to pick up John's phone from the table. "Go on – let me have a gander, eh?" 

"Harry, no!" He snatched it back, and stuck the phone in his breast pocket. He watched her carefully, not nearly as amused she was. Harry could tell that John was starting to regret giving her anything to drink and was looking at her rather disapprovingly. It had become something she had become fairly used to over the years, but admittedly it was _somewhat _called for, considering her rapid drinking pace and past history. She and Sherlock had already finished their drinks, whilst John was barely halfway.

He hinted again.

"Isn't it time you...headed off as well?" John urged. "It's getting late, Harry. There's a B and B up the road you can stay in for the night instead of heading back, since I'm away. My treat. Come on."

He seemed almost desperate, which made her feel suspicious. What could be so wrong with simply staying here? Was Sherlock that bad? She had to admit that he already tried her patience; but in all fairness, she wasn't the most tolerant person and she knew full well of her erratic temper. 

_Best not to argue._****

"If you insist, dear brother," she muttered, believing she might as well humour John for the time being. 

With a frown, she lifted up her bag and strung it back over her shoulder whilst keeping an eye on Sherlock from the other side of the table. His eyes were fixed on her pocket again. Was the packet sticking out or something? She ignored the impulse to check, not wanting to bring any obvious attention to it.

After all, things had gone rather well with John, so far.

John was already waiting for her by the door to the stairs. He had a small suitcase at his side; which, of course, she jumped on.

"Long weekend?" She smiled wryly, teasing him.

John brushed it off. "Yes, actually. We're going to the Lake District until Monday. Should be nice."

Neither of them said a word after that, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence – more contemplative, if anything. The both of them were rather quiet-natured and had managed to chat up a storm together earlier, so the hush was welcomed. The two siblings stood outside 221B Baker Street, waiting for their respective taxis side-by-side as the rain began its slow patter on their heads.

When one finally pulled up, Harry insisted John go first for two reasons. Firstly, as she said she had already called one, and secondly as thanks for his stubborn, crumpled cheque for the B and B; signature already blurred slightly from the light drizzle. Not wanting to waste any more time away from his lady friend, happy as a clam, he took her up on it, waving at her merrily from the back window as he went.

She waved back at him, all the while thinking to herself. Whilst she had lived in London for a long time, Sherlock had indeed been right. Her move to the West Country had been purely to escape from prying eyes – and although it hadn't been successful, the countryish atmosphere had started to set itself in Harriet's ways regardless.

Once John had left, Harry breathed a sigh of relief, finally taking the chance to pull out a much needed cigarette. She rested it between her lips, using her tongue to tease it into position whilst she rooted around her jeans pocket for her lighter; fingers quivering slightly. But no sooner had she lit up, another distraction deterred her from satisfying at least the most nagging of her addictions.

Sherlock was stood in the doorway, having come up behind her silent as anything. She was tempted to describe his motions as skulking, like a mantis almost. He was eyeing up her cigarette, biting his lips hungrily; long white fingers curling at his sides. It didn't take a fellow addict to know that this was his way of asking for one.

With a slightly agitated sigh, she dug her hand back into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette which she then offered to Sherlock.

"Don't worry, I won't tell John," she muttered. "I know how he gets."

He sighed happily, as if she had released him. He snatched the cigarette from between Harry's fingers.

"You're not wrong there," he replied begrudgingly. "He does like to make things like this ridiculously difficult for me, even when he _knows_ it helps my thought pattern. Doctors, and those health concerns of theirs."

She laughed under her breath, taking a drag. Her eyes shut gently as she took a deep breath, warm smoke filling her lungs. She exhaled, feeling a little more satisfied but not quite, as all smokers know too well. Sherlock had done the same, although she couldn't begin to imagine how much better he'd felt for it. Knowing her brother, he would have been kept high and dry; only being able to sate his urges at opportunities which were likely to be rare, excepting the nicotine patches she'd seen on the side.

"Has he been keeping you well trained then?" Harry asked, tilting her head to one side.

"He believes so," Sherlock chuckled in reply. "Best to keep him thinking that way, as well. I wouldn't want him enrolling me into some bloody behavioural management class. It's something which I wouldn't put past him, though – half the time he treats me like I'm five years old."

Harry laughed. "I know exactly how you feel, sunshine," she said, as she folded her arms around her body to banish away the cooling evening air. "It's... nippy out, isn't it? Hope it doesn't tip it down on our poor Daddy John... though I don't think his mind was really on hiking."

"Nippy, yes," Sherlock shot back in response distractedly, noting Harry's change in position. She looked at him confusedly and he changed the subject. "I'm sure John wouldn't be adverse to you waiting in the flat for your 'taxi'... if you're susceptible to 'nippiness', as you put."

He smiled at her knowingly. Harry hadn't called for a taxi at all. Sherlock had been watching her, yet again. When she'd gone into the next room to make the call she'd simply put the phone to the side of her face and pretended to mutter a few incoherent words. It hadn't surprised her that Sherlock had noticed this, however – rather, she was surprised he'd asked after the drizzle had waned off... along with the fact that she'd simply said it as a conversation piece.

"Perhaps you should come inside, Harriet –"

"Harry," she said shortly, flicking away the stub. Only two people ever called her by that name. Her mother, and...

_And..._

"Do you want to come inside, or not?" He cut across impatiently, frowning at the wane in her temper. "I have no quarrel with leaving you outside, if that's what you'd prefer?"

Her eyes widened pleadingly.

"No, no no – it's okay. I'd quite enjoy the company to be honest," she replied quickly, now fiddling with the locket strung around her neck.

"Perhaps we could finish off the rest of the wine?" She added, glancing towards the front door. Sherlock opened it for her politely as she stepped carefully under his arm. She abruptly felt annoyed for being so little.

"I see no harm in that," replied Sherlock. "You humoured my addiction, so I see no harm in supervising you with your own – very nice flask, by the way. Besides, you make me laugh, which isn't all that common."

Harry's felt her face light up. Sherlock took a quick, final drag of his cigarette and doused it with the ball of his foot.

"Shall we, Mr Holmes?"

"...Sherlock."

She shook her head.

"Sorry. After you."

* * *

_He couldn't ever remember his mind feeling so soupy. Not even at university. He couldn't recall either how much time had passed – only that it must indeed be very late, as there seemed to be very few cars driving by outside; a rarity in central London._

_His glass was empty. The woman beside him filled his and her own with a gentle giggle and he felt warmth spreading over him in a wave. She was talking to him. Telling him about things – her brother, mainly. He was laughing but didn't quite know the reason._

_She leant across from him – and he looked at it, once more. It hung there, glimmering softly in the dim light against her curving bosom. _

_The locket seemed to be very much her – worn a little but still lovely; petite and sentimental. But yet it wasn't and he couldn't quite place why. There was a very faint aroma from it of age, but also a zest that was undoubtedly masculine; which he found odd. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off it and he found himself finally asking her about it in a pride-reducing slur much unlike his smooth, sober baritone. _

_"Who gave you that... Harry?" He asked clumsily, fighting the urge to yet again say 'Harriet', which seemed to slip much more easily off his tongue. He took another sip from his glass, his world spinning around him; the wallpaper patterns blurring into grey. _

_She took it from him – and her face completely changed, causing his eyes to widen. There was a sadness in her expression now which hadn't been there before. She had remembered... something. Something which she had come for all along, but had been putting it off. Her jaw was set in a sort of ironic determination and Sherlock found more and more questions rising up. He groaned slightly instead and she came closer to him._

Why?

_"Truth is, Sherlock Holmes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper; lips a warm tingle by his ear. "I didn't come here for my brother. I came for you. I need your help... I need your help more than anything else in the world, Sherlock."_

_Harriet's hand reached out to touch his face. He met it as the world darkened; his memory leaving him as he spiralled downwards, _downwards_, into a state between consciousness and slumber with her._


End file.
